


The Queen of Winter

by Caenea



Series: The Wolf in Lion's Clothes [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Childbirth, Coronation, F/M, Illness, Marriage, Physical Disability, Political Intrigue, Recovery from trauma, Revenge, Sansa Stark is a BAMF, physical injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: "Executing traitors is strength, not fear. Robb made mistakes, stupid mistakes. But he was still the King the North chose and he was betrayed and murdered. We have to repay that." She slides from his lap and lifts her chin. "I was Sansa Stark of Winterfell before I was anyone else. It's time I reminded people of that. It's time people were reminded that the North remembers."





	1. Sansa I

Winterfell was different. 

A month there, a month of living behind its walls once more, and still she felt so much like an outsider. 

The men Tywin had sent North had done a good job of rebuilding the burnt parts, but perhaps that was why she felt odd. Things were different, subtly different. A missing tapestry, a new forge, a new archery range. A broken stone direwolf outside the crypts. 

Her father's statueless tomb. 

All of these were lies and excuses. She felt out of place here because she was different. Her name was different too. The Northmen who came to Winterfell to greet their new Lord and Lady saw a Lannister bride with the Tully look. They did not see the North in her, they saw Tully and Southron and Lannister. She might have ordered the Stark banner flying alongside the Lannister lion, but the Lannister lion was flying over the ancestral seat of the Stark's and it rankled against everyone's skin. 

But if they looked at her with uncertainty, they looked at Jaime with open disgust, loathing, hatred. He was miserable and she knew it, and the Gods knew she couldn't blame him. She felt powerless to help, she did not know what to do. This was not as Casterly Rock had been - the Lannister's ruled there, had always ruled there, nobody had questioned that. All she had had to do was step into the shoes of the Lady of the Keep. Winterfell was now in the hands of the enemy, when so recently it had been the seat of the King in the North. 

The King in the North who may or may not be dead, who was believed to be dead, who probably was dead, given how long it had been without even a whisper from him. In exchange for the Young Wolf, a lion had been sent. In exchange for Eddard Stark, Jaime Lannister had been given. And she had no idea how to begin putting her people back together, or how to gel her Southron husband into his role as Warden of the North. She had no idea how to rule the North. 

She knew Jaime had sent three letters to Tywin, demanding to know the situation in King's Landing. None of them had been answered, and that uncertainty added another layer to their problems. Unable to be certain what was happening in the capital, Sansa was uncertain of where and how to step, of what best to do, of which angle to start playing. And there was still no word on the Boltons. She couldn't be certain that they had even gone to the capital. 

And in all of this, as she abandoned silk and linen for wool and velvet, as she braided her hair back in Northern styles, she and Jaime were fighting to find their feet together again. 

Being back in Winterfell had dragged the wounds of Bran's fate out from under both their skins. She could see the guilt on him, she felt the mantle of her rage settle around her shoulders, both of them were wary of the other. And in her belly, in her still-flat stomach, she was carrying their baby, the Lannister heir to half the country. The child inside her would be heir to the North and the Rock - but only if she and Jaime learnt to rule the North together. 

She would never rule like this. In the capital, they had called for her as Queen. She had dared to dream of what it might be like. This was not ruling. This was tiptoeing around and avoiding the obvious - that a Lannister had taken Winterfell, that a Northman had betrayed his King, that a King of the North had faced betrayal and open mutiny from a House loyal to hers for centuries. But she had said it to Robb in one of her letters - whatever they have made my name, I am a Stark by blood and by loyalty. It was time to remind these battle-hardened men that her father had been Eddard Stark. 

She commissions the stonemasons to carve a statue for her father. She orders the direwolf outside the crypt repaired. She orders the demolition of the old tower. She seeks to repair her home alongside her marriage, she seeks to bring her husband closer as she gathers her resources to rule her people as the Lady of Winterfell. 

As her final act of preparation, she designs a new crest. She takes the rampant lion of House Lannister and the snarling wolf of House Stark, and sketches until she's happy with it, then sews until her eyes are bleary and aching and her fingers are cramping and sore. She shows it to Jaime, the black sigil on the gold background.   
"What is this?" he asks her, his gaze flickering uncertainly from her to banner.   
"This is our sigil," she says firmly, not daring to show her uncertainty. If she does, she's afraid she won't say enough to convince him that she thinks she knows what to do.   
"Our - sigil?"   
"Lannister gold, Stark black," she says. "The body of the Lannister lion - and the head of the Stark direwolf. We have to show the Northern Houses that we do not intend to defy the traditions, the - the spirit of what it means to be Northern. And until we can do that through our actions, I thought this might help." Jaime stares at her.   
"You're doing it again," he says, smiling sadly at her.   
"Doing what?"   
"That thing you do where you just - know what to do. Ordering the stonemasons to carve your father's statue, fix the direwolf, take down that tower. Designing a new sigil. How do you always know what to do?"   
"Oh, Jaime," she said, soft and sad. She got up from her chair and went to him, nudging at him until he let her perch on his lap. "I don't know what to do," she continued, looking at him. "I'm scared, Jaime, I am very, very afraid right now. This is not Casterly Rock. I was naive enough to believe that because this was once my home, this would be easy. But it isn't. Too much has changed, too much has happened. We're both lost. So we have to fight, Jaime, we have to do this together, like we promised. But I do know that we both have something to prove. Not to your father, or to mine, but to the North. We have to start trying to build bridges. And I just thought - if we can show them that we will honour the Starks, it might be a start." He kissed her, brief and fleeting, and she kissed him back, grateful and relieved by the contact, the unspoken agreement.   
"It's perfect. The sigil. My father won't like it, but he's a thousand leagues away and has yet to write to me to give me any indication of the news from the capital."   
"There's still been no word?"   
"Nothing. I've just sent a raven to Tyrion. He'll tell us." She nods.   
"We have to know. And we have to know about the Boltons. I don't believe they ever went South."   
"No," Jaime agrees, holding her waist and resting his head against her shoulder. "I don't think they did either. I asked Tyrion about that too."   
"We need to deal with them, swiftly and decisively," she says, quietly. "Treachery of their kind cannot go unpunished."   
"For the poisoning?"   
"For their King," she corrects. "They were working for your father, but they should have been Robb's men."   
"The North is still loyal to Robb?"   
"The North is loyal to the North," she answers, letting her fingers slide into his hair. "They lost more than a war when they lost Robb. They lost their pride. The poisoning gives us an excuse Tywin will buy when we execute them." He physically starts under her, she feels the jolt and how he tightens his hold on her waist.   
"You want to execute them?"   
"They nearly killed you. They betrayed their King. Traitors have to die."   
"I don't disagree with you," he says slowly, looking directly at her. "But we're playing a delicate game here. Will this benefit us, or will it make the Northern Lords afraid of us? We cannot rule by fear alone - Aerys tried that, Joffrey tried that. It never ends well. Will we be able to rule if our time here starts with death?"  
"Executing traitors is strength, not fear. Robb made mistakes, stupid mistakes. But he was still the King the North chose and he was betrayed and murdered. We have to repay that." She slides from his lap and lifts her chin. "I was Sansa Stark of Winterfell before I was anyone else. It's time I reminded people of that. It's time people were reminded that the North remembers."


	2. Jaime I

His wife is beautiful.

  
He's watched her become powerful, strong. He's watched her go from wary doe to fighting wolf. He's seen her let down her guard and let him in, learn to love and to trust again within his arms. She's watched him unlearn decades of self doubt and start to believe in himself. She's seen him find a place for himself after spending his entire life believing his place was somewhere entirely different. He's been broken and rebuilt within the safe and loving circle of her arms more times than he can count.

  
But he has a favourite Sansa, not that he would ever admit it to her. He loves Sansa when she's soft and gentle, taking care of him and every other stray she finds. He loves her when she's quietly making plans about how to advance them, how to establish them - always, for them. He loves her when she's flushed and panting for his touch.

  
But he worships her when she stands up as though queen before her people, to deal out justice and to make right the wrongs men have done her. He's seen flashes of it before, of the queen Sansa could be if these wild Northmen choose to make her so - when she stood before his family the day before they were married and played Joffrey and Cersei with clever words until even his father was breathless; the day they came back to King's Landing and she stood before Joffrey and publically called him out on what he'd done to her. And Kinston had told him about what she had done when she'd called the household together after he had been poisoned.

  
He'd always wanted to see it, and now he's being granted his wish.

                "You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. You stand accused of espionage. How do you wish to plead, Lord Bolton?" The new banner is hanging over the fireplace behind her as she stands, her red hair loose down her back. Roose Bolton faces her without tremor, the gathered Heads of the Northern Houses - even the Karstarks - watch the pair of them in grim silence. And he dare not even breathe as he watches his wife lift up her chin and fix Bolton with blue eyes and ice around her like a cloak.

                "I'm afraid I fail to understand, Lady Lannister," Bolton replies smoothly. "I do not recall committing any of those crimes against you."

                "You didn't, Lord Bolton. This is not about me, or about the crimes you have committed against my husband. This is about the crimes you committed against your King." A stir passes through the room as men glance at each other. Nobody knew of this. And Sansa stands immobile before them, her back poker-straight and her hands perfectly steady. Jaime can feel his heart beating too fast within his chest. He and Sansa planned this so carefully. If it should go wrong now, if the Lords will not stand behind them, then they have no hope of ever ruling the North successfully. They'll lose it all, before ever beginning to play.

                "I am loyal to the Crown, my Lady -" Bolton begins.

                "The wrong crown, Lord Bolton. You betrayed the crown you once swore to stand behind, the crown the North chose to put on the head of my brother, Robb Stark. You betrayed him. You sold out your King. You committed regicide. You betrayed your King to the highest bidder and there is no honour in that, Lord Bolton. My father would have been the first to call you to account for that." She draws herself up and Jaime hears his own breath catch as she seems to grow there in front of him. A murmur builds in the hall. "And he would have personally beheaded you on the spot for what you allowed to be done to my mother." A murmur is rising. "As the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, as the sister of the King in the North Robb Stark, I tell you again: you stand accused of murder, of treason and of espionage. Before you die for your crimes, I ask you again: how do you answer these charges?" Lord Bolton laughs.

  
He laughs, and Jaime's heart drops through the floor.

                "You do not have the authority to do this," Bolton sneers at Sansa. "I do not answer to you."

                "No, you answer to Tywin Lannister - who isn't here, Lord Bolton. And the Lannister's who are here are no friends of yours after you took gold to pay Janos Slynt to try to murder me. You are far away from anyone who might save you. You attempted to double-cross the double-cross, Lord Bolton - and played yourself. You see, the crimes you have committed against me and my husband will serve well as my excuse when I send your head to Tywin Lannister as proof of exacted justice. But I do not play games among my own people, Lord Bolton. The North is and was my home long before any other. I have honour, Bolton. It's a quality you lack and apparently don't understand."

                "You have three dozen witness at least who will tell Lord Lannister the truth -"

                "Do I?" Sansa says, blinking slowly at him, her smile a dangerous, terrible thing that makes something dark and hot rear it's head inside his chest. "Lord Glover? Do you have anything to tell Lord Tywin about why this happened today?"

                "For poisoning, my Lady."

                "Lord Manderley?"

                "For poisoning."

                "Lady Mormont?"

                "For poisoning." Sansa takes one precise, measured step forward.

                "You have no friends here, Lord Bolton. You betrayed your King, you sold my brother and my mother to the highest bidders, you murdered Robb in cold blood. You have one chance, Lord Bolton. One chance. Deny this now. Convince me, and you will walk away alive."

  
He knows what she's doing. He doesn't need to see her face to know that it's drawn tight and tense, to know what she's offering Bolton. Joffrey sent her a head purported to be Robb Stark - a head that was not Robb Stark's. She's offering Bolton the chance to confess, to tell her and every Northern Lord that he didn't kill Robb Stark. Or - she wants him to tell her that he did, that the head was a ruse but her brother is dead regardless, that she has nothing to cling to by way of hope.

                "I followed orders," Lord Bolton says. "And I killed the traitor Robb Stark." Sansa bows her head, just for a second, just briefly as an angry murmur sweeps the room.

                "Very well, Lord Bolton. Then you are guilty, and traitors have to die."

                "Will you be beheading me yourself, Lady Lannister?" Bolton says, still with a sneer in place.

  
He doesn't seriously expect to die, Jaime realises. He still doesn't fully realise that the summons to Winterfell he was sent had nothing whatsoever to do with the Lord's swearing fealty to their new Warden. This was always the end-game. Sansa was always going to exact the price she'd demanded in her rage the day the box had been delivered to Casterly Rock. _I want the head of that traitor Bolton on my walls._

                "Do I look able to swing a sword, Lord Bolton?" she answers. "My power does not come from a blade, I do not need a blade to rule you. Still, my father taught us all very well - the man who passes sentence should swing the sword." And that's his cue. He rises, and there's a rustle as understanding passes like a wave through the room.

                "As Warden of the North, with the power invested in me by the Crown, I find you guilty of treason, murder and espionage. Your titles and properties are forfeit, and I sentence you to die." He turns his eyes to the ever ready Kinston and Marbrand. "Take him outside."

  
It's snowing, because it is always snowing here. There's nothing poetic when Bolton dies, dark red blood staining the ground, blending with the churned up mud and snow to create a stinking mire of death and heavy tension.

  
The Lords swear fealty.

  
None of them accept Sansa's extended invitation to spend a night or two within Winterfell's walls.

                "They do not trust us yet," he says, when she starts to pace that night in their bedchamber, when she worries aloud that the rejected invitations means she has made a terrible mistake, that she should have left Bolton alive, at least for a while longer. "It's not to be wondered at."

                "I was careful," she says, for perhaps the fifth time. "I did not offer Bolton the bread and salt, I did not offer him guest right, I deliberately did not. None of them will be able to accuse me of breaking that at least." Guest right, just one more Northern custom he doesn't fully understand. One more tradition he must learn and respect if he's to have any hope at all of governing this wild province he knows next to nothing about. The North is still the land of myths, magic, and fairytale monsters, and he doesn't know anything about what's true and what's not. He doesn't understand the Old Gods of Sansa's father, he doesn't understand the customs of guest right and Heart Trees and Northern prayer.

                "My love," he says, and puts out a hand to catch her as she paces, drawing her close to him. "My love, you did what you believed to be the right thing. You did the right thing, beliefs or not. Sometimes the best display of strength is to exhibit that strength, to demonstrate the consequences of treason. And I guarantee that your father would have done the same." She bites her lip.

                "I want to make him proud," she whispers, as if afraid she'll be heard. "Whatever they said he was at the end - he had honour and I want him to be proud of me. I want his memory honoured, and I want to do the right things to do that. I am afraid I will repeat his mistakes."

                "His - mistakes?" Jaime answers, confused now.

                "He made mistakes, Jaime. To tell Cersei that he knew the truth? Good Gods. Robb made mistakes too - if he had married as he should, I would still have a brother. I will not repeat those mistakes if I can help it. My father and my brother were very far from perfect, but they did not deserve to die for that." He pulls her close to whisper his reply.

                "We do not know for certain your brother is dead -" She laughs, bitter and brittle as she interrupts.

                "I offered Bolton the chance to live by admitting Robb was alive. It wasn't Robb's head Joffrey sent me, but he is no less dead for all that. He has not contacted me, there has been no whisper of him even as a rumour. I should harden my heart, my tender heart they always told me would be my downfall. I must accept that he is dead. It will drive me mad if I keep holding onto hope."

                "I hope you never lose that tender heart," he counters. "Nothing else could have loved me." She touches his face at that, a gentle stroke of fingertips over his cheek and jaw.

                "You're a romantic fool," she tells him.

                "I know. D'you want me to apologise?" She smiles.

                "No. Never." She straightens her back with a grimace. "I'm for bed, I think. Will you join me?"

                "Yes."   
  
Once they're undressed, he glances at her standing in her shift to brush her hair out - and freezes a little.

                "Sansa."

                "Hmm?"

                "I - you're showing." A small smile creeps onto her face.

                "I noticed a few days ago," she says softly. "Caliene has had to let out my laces a little. I was going to give you another half-moon to notice before I told you." She lays down the brush and turns to the bed. "Do you - would you like to feel it?" He nods, his throat tight. She comes to him looking so painfully young in her shift and bare feet, her hair unbound and loose. She takes his hand - and he's shaking, why is he shaking - and brings it gently to her stomach.

  
The swell of her belly is small, but firm under his hand, it fits the curve of his cupped hand well. That's his child.

 

A boy, perhaps, a son and heir with Lannister blonde hair and Tully blue eyes, with all his mother's compassion and his own determination. Perhaps a daughter, with Tully red hair and his nose, with her father's stubbornness and her mother's heart.

  
He wants them to be healthy and good, brave and strong, he wants them to have the best of their mother in them. He wants them to be better than the Lannister's who came before them.

  
He's nearly asleep, curled around her protectively with his hand still cupping her belly when she speaks again.

                "We still need to deal with Bolton's bastard," she says quietly. "He too must pay the price for what he ordered done." He knows too well that she is right.

  
He doesn't know how he missed her becoming the warrior she is now.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I RETURN.
> 
> This is going to be heavier than Casterly Rock was. I hope you all still love it.
> 
> I want to repeat my sincere gratitude to everyone who supported me during a fucking awful few months. depression is an awful, grinding, terrible thing and I genuinely had moments of just... wanting to not do it any longer. 
> 
> But - I lived. I learned. And I found the fighting spirit I thought I'd lost. Don't underestimate the part YOU played in that.
> 
> Updates will be on Mondays as a set thing. Maybe there will be others sprinkled in but Mondays. Mondays are good. 
> 
> As always you can find me on Tumblr and Twitter using the handle captain-caenea.


	3. Tywin I

The mood in the city matches the heat of it.

Oppressive, heavy, a thickly tangible presence in the air. Joffrey's body had stunk in the heat, regardless of the herbs and embalming medicines of the Silent Sisters. By the time they buried him, his face had been a bloated, purple mess, unrecognizable as the boy Tywin had such high hopes for. Or had had, once, when the boy had been born. Before Cersei had spoiled the boy, before Robert had bullied him so mercilessly for being such a mother's boy, before the darkness had become so evident in him, before the memorable day he had found the boy torturing his little brother's pet kitten.

 

Joffrey had been an evil. For all of that, he had been blood. Blood is thicker than water. Joffrey had been Tywin's legacy, and Sansa had pointed out how worthless that was. His hopes for his legacy, for his family blood, now rested on two pregnant women - Sansa, in the far away and frozen North, carrying Jaime's legitimate child; and Margaery Tyrell, who was swearing before Septons and on altars that the whelp she carried was Joffrey's. Sansa was what, four moons gone by now, near five? He can't remember. Margaery was two moons in.

 

Seven moons to decide the throne, four or five to decide Lannister lands. If Sansa had a girl, well, no matter. If she could bear one healthy child she could bear another, and Jaime had three children already - or two, if recent events were taken into account. If she had a boy, if she gave Jaime a boy, then Tywin would relax at least fractionally. A baby in a cradle is no man grown, but it would be a start. And the same adage applied - if she could conceive once, she could do so again. Heirs and spares, always heirs and spares.

 

But if Margaery had a girl - to rule, that girl would need to be married. As much as thirteen years until marriage was possible, and then it would be to an outsider, someone Tywin could not guarantee to control. Even if she did birth a boy, it would be at least a decade until that boy could feasibly be sat down on the damned throne. Tywin knows the risks of a Regency, of infant Kings or Queens too young to rule. Two months of it so far, two months of heated verbal battle with the Small Council and the Tyrells, while he fought to establish himself, whilst he was forced to argue with Olenna Tyrell increasingly over her irritating wish to take Margaery back to Highgarden for her pregnancy. He is exhausted by it, by Cersei's increasing instability, by Olenna's ridiculous demands. As if he would allow the girl to leave the city. The Gods only knew what could be faked or staged if Margaery was gone. The entire pregnancy, possibly, a live child brought or stolen to replace a stillborn or a miscarriage. He's already ordered Margaery examined by a Maester under his own pay - who, for better or worse, has confirmed that the girl is pregnant and Pycelle was not taking Tyrell gold to lie.

 

There's Cersei too, who seems to have completely lost her damned mind. She has had Tommen moved into her own chambers, has set the Mountain outside the doors on constant, menacing guard. When Tywin is forced to see her, she repeats the same things over and over again. She insists that Tommen should be King now, that Margaery Tyrell is a lying whore with a dangerous family who cannot be allowed to continue with their deception lest they are all played for fools. She demands Myrcella return from Dorne, because they cannot trust the Dornish. She demands Tywin hand power to her as Regent, as the mother of the last King and the rightful heir.

 

Then to crown it all, there is always one thing that goes virtually hand-in-hand with a Regency. The age-old threat of invasion, rebellion - this country is being torn apart already, with Kings declaring themselves left and right. Stark is dead, Tywin knows that - Joffrey had been sadistic enough to send Sansa his head and Bolton had told him the task was done. Balon Greyjoy is no real threat to anyone, locked away on his mass of tiny, rocky islands and mad as a frog into the bargain. Renly is dead, supposedly at the hands of a witch - a witch who has Stannis in her claws.

 

Stannis Baratheon, the only real, serious threat, the only man who could do this. Tywin rubs his temples, closes his eyes for a brief moment. Stannis might, conceivably, be able to take the throne. He has the manpower - or if he does not at this immediate time, he could get it. He would have taken the capital during the Battle of the Blackwater if he hadn't been for Tyrion using Wildfire, of all things, and if Tywin himself hadn't arrived in time.

 

There are always so many ifs. There are always so many variables, so many possibilities. Tywin is not a man who lives for the thrill of those variables, he likes facts and plans. He likes to scheme and plot and plan so he can be ready for those variables, so they do not surprise him when they appear. He prefers to know what to expect. It's why, even now, the letter in front of him is giving him a headache so violent he can barely force his eyes open to face the white glare of the parchment. He so rarely makes mistakes, he so rarely fails to predict someone. He so rarely underestimates people that it's galling to realise that he has done so. Sansa Stark, once the pawn of men like Littlefinger and Joffrey, has come from nowhere to be a player. He'll never forget her blue eyes burning into him that morning they found Joffrey dead, telling him that someone, somewhere, was playing the whole lot of them for fools and had been doing so since Jon Arryn had gone to meet the Gods. He'll never forget her frozen gaze calling him a coward for how he had removed her brother from the game. He'll never forget her cool manipulation of an audience, her controlled judgements of Cersei and Joffrey the day they betrothed her to Jaime. He'll never forget how well she ruled Casterly Rock, how fiercely loyal they were to her there after a bare four months. He'll never forget how fierce she was when she demanded justice for her brother and for Jaime's poisoning. He will never forget the loyalty she showed when she traded everything she had to convince him to let her sister go unsearched for.

 

And now he will never forget this either. The white parchment stamped with the Lannister and Stark seals, her pretty handwriting spelling out the words _Justice has been served upon those who did me wrong_. The scroll bears an image of a flayed man that has been crossed out, an identical flayed man beside it - but without his head. He knows exactly what it is she means by it. Roose Bolton is dead. He has unanswered letters from Jaime demanding answers about the Bolton patriarch piling up on his desk, and it is true that Bolton had never answered the summons to Court to be questioned about the poisoning. He had let something slip for the first time in a long while, he had allowed Bolton to ignore him for too long in the midst of the Regency crisis. Now it seems Sansa has made her own justice, somehow managed to get Bolton to Winterfell itself - and has had his head cut off. Which Tywin would approve of, if these circumstances were different.

 

Because he knows, and he knows that Sansa knows, that it was not Roose who ordered poison in her jug. He knows, and Sansa knows, that the papers Slynt carried commissioning him for murder were stamped with the inverted Bolton seal. It was not Roose who took Cersei's gold to poison Sansa, but the bastard son, of whom he has no word. He may have badly underestimated Sansa, but he has never been a fool and is determined not to allow Sansa Stark to make one of him. He has not been sent Roose Bolton's sigil drawn headless as proof of justice done to his son's would-be murderer. Sansa did not kill him for that, and Tywin knows it all too well. What it means is that Sansa gave him a chance to do things his way, as she had done when Jaime had been locked in the Black Cells, and had once more found him lacking in her own eyes. When he failed to act soon enough, decisively enough, she took matters into her own hands and had them execute Bolton to avenge her brother and her mother.

 

He groans aloud, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes as the headache surges viciously behind them. He has failed to act. He has failed to act, so she has acted instead. He had once warned Jaime not to underestimate her, always believing that there was more to her than met the eye - but he could never have predicted this.

 

To make it worse, Varys has reported that there is a movement in the city that believes the Stark cause will rise again, that his birds hear whispers proclaiming the girl the Queen in the North still, that Robb Stark somehow survived the Red Wedding, that he lives still. There are rumours that a giant direwolf has been seen stalking the streets of the city in the dead of night, with a grey and white colouring and a ferocious, gleaming snarl always on its face. Varys says that the rumours have it that the wolf is the spirit of Ned Stark, searching out his murderers to bring justice down upon them. Two of those things, Tywin is confident can be dismissed. The wolf is likely a dog, grown over-large by scavenging and stealing - although he still orders the city guards to kill the thing if it is seen by them. Best not to let rumours like that grow too far. And he knows Robb Stark is dead - Bolton's word might be worth little to Tywin in light of the man’s son's actions, but Sansa had seen her brother's head in a box. No man can live without a head, and Tywin will never forget the sound of Sansa's scream when she saw it.

 

But the whispers that still call Sansa Queen are problematic. He has commanded Varys to find out where these whispers are beginning, who is whispering them - and so far, the man has been about as useful as a wet stocking. And as much as he uses logic and reason to attempt to explain the so-called wolf, he cannot shake the feeling that something about it does not sit right, that somewhere he has heard about that wolf before. Something sits wrong about it, something tells him he knows about that wolf.

 

He has such a headache. The pain of it blocks his mind, slows him, stops him thinking straight and the Gods know he cannot afford be slow now. Everything hinges on him - the succession, the Regency, his own legacy, the future of the damned country. All that he knows for certain is that he needs Sansa Stark to be as contained as she can be whilst a thousand leagues away, as it's painfully clear Jaime's too much a fool or too much a weakling to rule his wife as he should be doing. He can send spies there, more than he already has, get as close to the girl as he can without being physically present. He can order her watched, he can order her letters read and screened, but it might be too little done too late. Whatever he does, it must be done soon, or Sansa Stark could be the catalyst that tears apart the Kingdoms. How did he make such a mis-step, how did he let his guard down so badly? He has misjudged her terribly, and it has played against him with the loss of an ally. And the worst of it is, the very worst of it - he cannot retaliate. She carries the heir to his family name, she holds the cards of the Lannister family future. She's safe.

 

And he despises her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one this week I'm afraid! 
> 
> Still, I hope you all enjoy it :-)


	4. Sansa II

She expects Tywin's reply to be swift, but a week passes, then two, and no reply comes from the Regent.

  
She wants to write to Margaery but does not dare, not confident enough in her ability to sufficiently code a second  message to her old friend without the security of a trusted – and conveniently placed - man to deliver it. She is desperately curious, there are so many questions, so many unanswered riddles - Olenna telling her to look East, Margaery alluding to a plan that would keep her safe. Was Joffrey's death the plan? But why then ought she to look to the East? They'd been looking out over the Blackwater. They could have meant anything from Dragonstone to the Shadowlands beyond Asshai for all Sansa knows.

  
Dragonstone was Stannis Baratheon's stronghold, everyone knew that. Why would Olenna be plotting with Stannis if she had planned all along to have Margaery conceive Joffrey's child? And it was said Stannis was using a witch, a Red Priestess from some distant land. Sansa didn't have any illusions that she knew Olenna, but the woman had never struck her as the type to indulge witchcraft.

  
Maester Castlan's voice pulls her out of her thoughts.

                "You're progressing well, my Lady. From what I can gather, the child grows well."

                "Thank you, Maester." The man helps her rearrange her dress a little, to sit up.

                "Are you still suffering a mother's stomach?"

                "No, that seems to have stopped."

                "Have you had any pains, any traces of blood?"

                "No, nothing like that."

                "Good, my Lady. Should you experience any pains in your back or you belly, or between your legs, it is very important I am summoned at once." Sansa nods.

                "Of course, Maester. Can my husband come in?" Castlan smiles and nods at her.

                "Of course, my Lady." He crosses the room and opens the door, revealing a worried looking Jaime. Sansa smiles and holds out a hand to him.

                "You can come in. Maester Castlan tells me all seems to be progressing well." Jaime looks to the man for confirmation, and she hides her smile at his obvious fretting.

                "Really? She is well?"

                "Lady Sansa is young and strong, my Lord. The child seems to be growing as it should, and all the signs point to a healthy pregnancy."

                "Seems to be?" The Maester spreads his hands apologetically.

                "So much of a pregnancy in the early stages can be difficult to determine. But the bump grows, indicating that the child does too. For now, everything looks exactly as it should. Try and relax, both of you. The worst thing the Lady Sansa can do now is put herself under stress."

  
There's nothing but stress at the moment. The longer it takes for Tywin to reply to her note, the more worried she becomes that the whole thing was a mis-step, that she acted too decisively.

  
And they still have yet to act against Ramsey Snow.

  
Sansa has questioned the Northern servants, those Lords she feels she knows well enough to write to - Glover and Manderley, at least. They all say the same thing: that Ramsey Snow is a monster, a depraved, sadistic man who flays men alive just to hear them scream. Rumour has it he keeps himself a pet at the Dreadfort, some poor lost soul who he caught and now keeps, someone he tortures and torments. And Sansa does not know what to do.

  
She has faced Joffrey and his mother, endured taunts and even beatings. But there's a difference  - Joffrey and Cersei were cruel, yes, but this man sounds infinitely worse than both of them. But there is always value in information. If Ramsey really is keeping a man prisoner as some kind of plaything, then surely it counts as slavery? Her father had banished a man for selling to a slaver, she remembers hearing talk of it.

  
They have kept up the custom of hearing petitions here, but she knows that the weekly hearings are painful for Jaime. Even the Smallfolk who come speak directly to her, addressing her as "my good Lady Sta - Lannister", always with a pause and a sideways glance at Jaime sat silent and tense beside her. None of the Lord's have ever attended or indicated in writing that there has been any kind of issue the wish the Warden to deal with.

  
And winter is coming.

  
The days are growing colder, she feels it more and scents it in the air - a crisp, clear-clean scent of snow being carried on sharper and sharper winds. The snows come almost every day now, and Wintertown is slowly growing in size. Lists from their steward and the Maester indicate people claiming residence in the town have increased by 100 souls in the month they have been ruling at Winterfell.

  
For all she was born here, for all she lived her life behind the thick walls of the castle, for all she knew of the last winter - and it's a hazy, distant memory really, she was scarce out of the cradle - she knows nothing of how to deal with a winter. They say the longer the summer lasts, the worse the winter will be, and this summer has lasted near fourteen years. She was a babe of three during the last, now she nears seventeen. And she knows nothing of how the winter must be prepared for. Robb had been the one to learn that, Robb had been the one to take lessons from Maester Luwin on what must be done before winter sets in. Sansa had learnt to sew and sing and dance.

  
To try and make up for these gaps, she spends long hours shut up in her solar, her mother's old sitting room, poring over old records and castle manifests, struggling to decipher ancient words written down from decades before she was born. She shuts herself away to learn, she tells herself, because somebody must and Jaime seems uninterested.

  
She tries to make conversation with him, she tries to ask questions about the last winter, she tries to find out what the processes had been at the Rock and in the capital but he brushes aside her questions with excuses that he didn't know, that his father had taken care of all that, that the Red Keep had been controlled by Maesters, he had just done as he was told. _And besides_ , he always says, _what good would it do us here to know how things worked there? The North is always hardest hit by winters._ It's frustrating and makes her angry, and she's taken to spending more and more hours away from him whilst she tries to work out how she is meant to rule with a disinterested and disenchanted husband. She had known it would not be easy for him, but she had been naive enough to think that a single display of strength and hearing petitions would be enough to crack the door open so acceptance might follow.

  
She's always been so naive.

  
There are centuries of pride built beneath the North, centuries of independence and being ruled by either the Crown or the Warden of the North - a man, always, a man of the North, who had been born and raised soaked in the customs and traditions of the wild land too big to be controlled by any external force. Now they've been sent a man with the face and name of an enemy and a girl who has no training. They will never trust her husband, and they will never believe she is capable of ruling unless she shows that she is.

  
Which always brings her back to two things - to be the law, she must enforce it, which means doing something about Ramsey Snow and the Dreadfort; and she must learn quickly how to deal with the approaching winter.

  
She reverts back to using the Stark seal on the documents from the hearings. If Jaime notices, he says nothing. She stops correcting people who call her Stark instead of Lannister, and instructs Caliene to start embroidering her dresses with the wolf sigil. She braids her hair into Northern styles and insists Caliene learn them too.

  
And with the cracks in their marriage getting bigger, she sends Jaime to the Dreadfort.

                "The Maester says I may not travel, else I would accompany you myself. You'll take a good-sized group. You will arrest Ramsey Snow and bring him here to be questioned."

                "On what charges am I arresting him?"

                "Attempted murder and keeping a slave. Find out as much as you can about that whilst you're there, question his men and his servants. I want to know the story about this poor soul he apparently keeps. Then, once he's here, we will question him together and decide a punishment. Send him to the Wall, perhaps, or imprison him. Exile, maybe. Besides, the Dreadfort should have been surrendered when we sent the raven out to announce Bolton's execution. Ramsey is a bastard, he cannot claim his father's properties and as Bolton died without legitimate issue, the lands should be forfeit."

                "As you command." She has to grit her teeth before she answers. This - passivity, this distance; this is not her husband. Part of her wants him to reprimand her, to tell her she is over-stepping her authority as his wife. Part of her wants to argue with him, anything but this silence between them. He shows emotions only when her pregnancy is discussed.

                "Then it's settled, and you can leave as soon as you can be ready. You'll take at least one Northman with you. It's a five-day ride to the Dreadfort and you'll get lost alone."

                "Very well." He stands up, looks at her with a sad smile that somehow curdles in her stomach. "You've become so strong," he says, entirely unexpectedly. "Soon you won't need me at all."

  
He leaves before she can answer him and he's riding out before she can think of a way to tell him that she'll always need him. Instead, unsure of what to say, she summons Kinston to her before the party leaves.

                "My Lady," he says, bowing to her. "You sent a summons," he prompts, while she sits in silence.

                "Yes. I did. Take care of my husband, Ser. I do not like what I have heard of Snow, I cannot predict him or how he will react to your presence at the Dreadfort." He nods.

                "I have defended him all his life, my Lady. I will continue to do so."

                "I know. I did not summon you for that. Bring Snow back here alive, those are my orders. I don’t care how you do it, say whatever needs saying, but bring him here alive. If the rumours of this - captive are true, then bring him here too, whoever he is. Do you understand?"

                "Of course, my Lady. I'll see it done."

                "Thank you, Ser. That was all. Let us not keep my Lord husband waiting any longer."

                "You'll see us off, my Lady?"

                "Of course I will. Would you escort me?"

                "It would be my honour, my Lady."

  
Her parting from Jaime is stiff and formal, in the courtyard surrounded by men and horses. She curtseys, he bows, they kiss without a trace of their usual affection. He gets to his horse before she realises she doesn't give a damn about propriety.

                "Jaime -" she says, stepping forward.

  
He doesn't turn back. He doesn't come back to her. He mounts up and rides away and leaves her staring after him, his name still on her lips and a heaviness she can't name crawling dark in her chest.

 


	5. Arya I

                "We should have got out of here the day your sister saw us," the Hound growls at her. She glares at him.

                "How the fuck was I supposed to bloody know someone was planning on knocking off another King?" she growls back. "Not my fucking fault Tywin Lannister got a rat up his arse about it and put the place on lockdown."

                "You're the stupid cunt who wanted to hang around to see what all that fuss was about."   
                "I wanted to make sure my sister was safe!" she spits at him. "Forgive me for being cautious about my family and weddings."

                "Your sister is safely playing at house with her husband in Winterfell by now," he grunts - because he always knows exactly where her sore spots are. "Probably happily assuming we're all safe and having a good time in bloody sunny Braavos." He swigs wine, spits on the floor, earns himself a warning growl from Nymeria. "And we can't even get a message to her."

                "What the fuck good would sending her a message do?"

                "It'd be fucking something -"

                "I am sick to godsdamned death of this argument," Gendry shouts suddenly, his fist slamming down on the table between them.

  
All three of them hold their breath, fearful that that would have been heard, that any moment now a guard will shout who's there and they'll be forced to fight their way out.

                "You stupid fuck," the Hound hisses, after a suitable amount of time has passed to convince them their tiny hiding place has gone undiscovered.

                "If it got you both to shut your mouths, I'd do it again." Gendry snatches the wine skin out of the man's hand, takes a swig for himself. "We know this situation is shit. You two blaming each other and bleating on and on about how we got into it isn't fucking helping."

                "It's fine for you two," the Hound says, snatching his wine skin back. "You can go out, you can blend in. I'm trapped in this pissing room."

                "We just need to wait a bit longer," Arya answers. "Just until we know we'll have a clear run to the tunnels, then we're getting out of here."

                "And when will that be?" Arya takes a deep breath.

                "Tonight. Hour of the wolf. We go one by one, we'll attract less attention that way. We meet up outside the city."

                "And if any of us get caught?" Gendry asks her, his voice tight.

                "We wait outside the city for an hour, no more, no less. And if we're missing someone - then whoever makes it goes without them. No heroics." Gendry glares at her.

                "If it's you -"

                "You'll leave with him," she interrupts fiercely. "I mean it, Gen. You won't hang around waiting for me or trying some suicide mission." She turns to the Hound. "I assume you're on board?" He grunts.

                "Won't catch me risking my neck for either of you idiots. Wouldn't expect it in return." She nods, satisfied.

  
The stillness is broken by Gendry getting up to swing his cloak on.

                "Where are you going?" she demands.

                "It's my turn to go out there and _blend in_ ," he sneers at her. "Back in a bit." He stumps out and leaves her with the Hound, who snorts at her.

                "What's your problem?" she snaps.

                "Him."

                "What?"

                "Makin' cow eyes at you whilst you don't even notice. You really think he'd just leave you if the Lannisters catch you?"

                "Then make him, if that's what it takes," she retorts, passing over that cow eyes comment.  "Hit him over the head with a rock if you have to."

                "My fucking pleasure, wolf bitch." Silence falls again. "And if it's him they catch? Want me to do the same to you, drag you away from here without him, kicking and screaming?"

                "You won't have to drag me," she answers, annoyed. "I'd just go."

                "Course you would, Stark. Keep saying that to yourself. Might even be true, if you tell it enough."

                "It doesn't matter anyway! It wouldn't be him they'd catch. You're the obvious fucker, and I'll have Nymeria with me. If they catch anyone, it'll be one of us."

  
When Gendry comes back, there's a tension between them, one that makes anxious fear curdle her guts. But as darkness starts to fall, they draw closer and closer together by instinct almost. Nymeria shoves her head into Arya's lap, some anxious whine escaping her.

                "S'OK, girl," Arya murmurs. "You'll be able to hunt again soon."

                "Fresh meat," the Hound growls. "It'll stink less than us."

                "It's time to go," Arya says, leaving the question of when they last washed well alone. "Gendry first, take the first route. Hound goes second, take the third route. And I'll go through the caverns under the Keep."

                "I should take the Keep -" Gendry starts.

                "No. You don't know it, I do. You know the Fleabottom way best, Hound knows the streets best. This was what we agreed. And I can't take Nymeria out into the open, she's been seen one time too many as it is."

                "Don't start arguing, boy," the Hound interrupts as Gendry opens his mouth. "This was all agreed. We meet outside the city in an hour and we fight if we have to - only if we have to. Anyone not there we leave behind. That was the deal."

                "Friends don't leave friends behind."

                "This is about living, boy. Got nothing to do with friendship."

  
They leave as planned, in five minute intervals. Gendry lingers as if he has something to say - but nothing comes, and he turns to leave, slipping out into the night, cloak pulled up to hide his face. The Hound goes too.

  
Arya crouches down to face Nymeria.

                "Now girl, we have to be quiet, OK? Quiet and unseen, can you do that?" Nymeria does nothing, just cocks her head. Arya grins. "Good girl. Come on."

  
They leave the dark room, Nymeria sliding ahead like a shadow. Arya tangles a firm hand into the fur at the wolf's nape. It won't do for them to get separated - and besides which, Nymeria can be her eyes this way. She won't need torches if she follows the wolf.

  
They make it to the cavern with the skulls surprisingly easily, but once there, she's forced to stop.

  
Twice she's been down here. Once she was running for her life, scared and half-blind with grief for Syrio. Once she was catching cats and stumbled on the skulls. Just like that time, it's the sound of voices that pulls her up.

                "I want that murderous bitch dead, and her whelp," a cold female voice says.

                "Yes, your Grace."

                "And this time, no mistakes. Slit her throat if you must. My father and my brother might be blind to her sins, to her traitor's heart, but I know better. I want her dead. I don't care how you do it."

                "No, your Grace. I will see it done." Arya's hand grips Needle in the darkness, tugging Nymeria backwards to further their cover in the darkness.

                "I expect to hear within the moon's turn after you arrive in Winterfell." Arya's blood turns to ice.

  
Cersei Lannister is paying to have her sister murdered. Cersei Lannister would see her sister die. Footsteps are moving away and for one wild moment, Arya imagines setting the wolf loose. Let the wolf loose, let her tear the bitch apart, Arya can almost taste it, can almost hear the woman screaming out her death throes.

  
The footsteps die away. Nymeria's fur is still soft under her hand, she's alone in the dark and wants to scream. Why, why didn't she act? This woman plans to have her sister murdered and she did nothing.

  
The rational side of her mind tells her she would not win in a sword fight and if she had let Nymeria loose on Cersei Lannister, whoever the bitch was hiring would have been drawn to the noise and she would have ended up dead or back in front of Tywin Lannister - who this time, would know good and well who she was. Sansa had told her that much. And if she's free, she can at least find a way to warn Sansa - even if it means going to Winterfell herself.

  
She waits only long enough to be absolutely sure she's alone, then urges Nymeria forward. They have to go, she knows they have to go. It doesn't stop her feet feeling like lead as she walks, as Nymeria pads beside her on silent feet. Her blood is roaring in her ears but somehow, without even really noticing the journey, she finds herself outside the city. An owl call comes from the darkness and Nymeria whines, padding forward to follow it.

                "Safe?" a low voice asks once she's amongst the trees. A familiar hand with familar calluses slips into hers and she grips it tight.

                "Just," she answers grimly. "Both of you here?"

                "I'm here," the Hound grunts. "Was about to give up on you."

                "Ran into a delay. Let's get away from here. I'm not anxious to remain." They go, walking carefully in a chain, Nymeria leading them until they're out of the trees and under the light of a near-full moon. The silvery glow of it casts the faces of the men into strange shadows from her considerably lower vantage point, but it's enough light to see Gendry's relief and the frown on the Hound's scarred features.

                "You said there was a delay," the Hound starts.

                "Cersei Lannister is paying someone to have Sansa killed," Arya answers shortly. "I'm going North. I have to get up there as soon as I can."

                "We're supposed to be getting out of this godsforsaken shithole," the Hound snarls.

                "Then go!" Arya snaps at him. "I'm not forcing you to tag along with us! You can go wherever you fucking want, but I'm going North. Someone needs to warn Sansa."

                "I made your sister a promise that I would do my part keeping you alive."

                "So?"

                "So where you go, I have to go." They face off until Gendry steps up.

                "We'll need horses," he says. "If we're gonna get up there at speed, before some assassin, we need horses. We've got enough gold to get decent animals. So we go North, and we warn Lady Lannister. Then we plan from there. I vote we set up camp and we sleep for now. It's a long fucking road North. We won't make it if we're dropping with exhaustion. Deal?"

                "Deal," Arya says immediately.

                "Deal," the Hound grunts.

  
They take it turns to take watches and when dawn comes, they find a farmer willing to trade three of his horses for a reasonable amount of their gold, and further down the way, they manage to buy warmer clothes and food. By the time they're well on the way, they look like any other travellers.

  
It's not the time, but she can't forget the Hound telling her Gendry would never leave her willingly - and she can't shake the guilt that it's because of her that they're potentially riding back into danger.

  
She tells herself this whilst she volunteers to take the full night of watch duty at the end of their first week on the road. She tells herself it's why she sneaks away.

  
She tells herself she's leaving to keep them safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry chaps - I fell asleep on the sofa yesterday at like half past eight and totally missed the update day!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this offering and I will start going through and replying to comments as of tomorrow! 
> 
> Remember I'm on Tumblr and Twitter as captain-caenea on both websites. DMs are open for both and the Tumblr ask box is open too!
> 
> Out of interest, would anyone also want a Facebook page??


	6. Jaime II

The road to the Dreadfort is bleak to say the least. The only remotely good spot is that he has Kinston with him, and a few other guards he knows well. The surly, burly Northman Sansa sent along with them has said maybe ten words since they left Winterfell and seven of them were _You're going the wrong way, my Lord._

  
The Gods are kind in terms of the weather. It gets cold enough at night to make metal burn lightly if bare skin touches it in the mornings, and honestly he can't say the days are any better. But still - at least it doesn't snow. The sky is white with clouds, high but heavy, but whenever Kinston glances up at it warily the Northman just laughs and shakes his head.

  
It's one more thing he has to learn, he supposes - how to judge the Northern weather. He knows Casterly Rock weather well - from the look of the sea, from the scent and direction of the wind. He knows King's Landing from how oppressive the city felt before a storm, from how the skies went dark. He doesn't know Northern weather.

  
The fifth day of riding bring them out onto a ridge, and the Northman points down to the end of the valley.

                "The Dreadfort, Lord Lannister."

                "Aptly named," Kinston mutters beside him and for one moment Jaime's lips twitch. The fortress is intimidating, tall and black against the trees and rocks and snowfall still lingering from days past.

                "Do you know how many men Bolton had?" Jaime asks, addressing the Northman.

                "'Bout a thousand, few more maybe if any jumped ship from Stark after the Red Wedding." Credit to the man, he doesn't glower or glare or even spit on the ground at the mention. "No way of telling how many might be loyal to his bastard but I can tell you only a few would've risked leaving."

                "Why?"

                "Because that boy's a monster. I met him once. Made me cold to the bone to look at him."

                "Would he open the gates to let us in, if the Warden of the North demanded it?"

                "Only one way to find that out, Lord Lannister."

  
Of course.

  
Because riding up to the kind of castle that makes the ruins of Harranhal look welcoming is of course easy.

  
Kinston brings his horse alongside Jaime's own.

                "Don't do anything rash," the man mutters, quietly enough not to be overheard.

                "Rash?"

                "Yes, rash. We should absolutely go in there prepared - but we won't fight our way out if it goes bad, it's impossible. And I promised your wife I'd bring you back to her alive." The mention of Sansa is jarring somehow.

  
The gap between them that had been formed by his confession about her brother was widening into a chasm with no apparent means of bridging it. In King's Landing they had had to find a united front, it had been vital to their survival. Up here, with memories assaulting both of them at every turn and nobody breathing down their necks, it seemed it was catching up with them. She had had them take down the tower, that was true, but in a way that was almost worse - like she wanted to make a point, like she thought if he had the means that he would do it again. And he would have had to be blind not to notice her reclaiming her Northern roots.

  
The seals on the documents were wolves again, her dresses were increasingly embroidered with a running wolf, even her hair was different. And the last time they had heard petitions, three people had called her Lady Stark and not been corrected. He doesn't know what it means.

  
In his darkest dreams, he dreamt she planned to kill him, or have him locked up. He dreamt she planned to use his death to soldify herself in Northern eyes. He woke from these dreams sweating and shaking, automatically seeking her warmth beside him. That, he supposes, is the worst case scenario.

  
He doesn't know what the best case is, and that frightens him too.

  
The gates of the Dreadfort are open, a gaping maw that makes him too suspicious to keep dwelling on the riddle his wife has become. Why would the gates be left open in this manner, why would Snow not have them sealed? Their party pauses outside the gates, seemingly as a collective decision. A guard approaches from the fortress.

                "Who goes there?"

                "Lord Jaime Lannister, the Warden of the North," Kinston shouts back.

                "What business does the Warden of the North have at the Dreadfort? What business does he have with the Lord of the Dreadfort?" That gets Jaime's brows raising. Lord of the Dreadfort?

                "We come only to meet with him," Jaime calls for himself.

  
They're allowed in, shown to the Great Hall - and left to wait. It's a slight, an obvious one and Jaime can't help but notice they haven't been offered bread or salt. He steps up to the Northman.

                "As we have not been offered guest right, am I to assume we are not safe?" The man raises a brow. It's the most expressive he's ever seen the man.

                "Catching on, are you? Good. Aye, it means something. Be on your guard, my Lord. Something is wrong here."

                "You've met Snow, you said?" Jaime asks, thinking fast.

                "Once or twice."

                "You'll know him when you see him?"

                "Aye."

                "Signal me, if you suspect a trap or a falsehood."

                "Consider it done, my Lord." But when Snow arrives, surrounded by bearded, burly and fur-clad men, Jaime doesn't need a signal.

  
There's something so cold in the pale blue eyes, something so evil in the smile. And there are far too many men here for them to have a chance of fighting it out if things do go south. Not for the first time, Jaime gets the distinct feeling he's walked into a trap.

                "Welcome to the Dreadfort, Lord Lannister," Snow says, his voice surprisingly light. "Have you come to introduce yourself?"

                "In a manner of speaking."

                "Yet you come without ceremony or fanfare - and without your wife. What a shame. I hear the newest Lady Lannister is quite beautiful."

                "She is," Jaime answers, keeping his own voice courteous. "She is also with child, and cannot currently travel. She sends her apologies, naturally."

                "Naturally," Snow echoes, still smiling. "She was always very proper, even as a child."

                "Yes."

                "I must confess to curiosity, of course. To ride so far, so far from your lovely wife, leaving her undefended at such a - vulnerable time." Jaime's blood runs cold. He knows a threat when he hears one, and Snow's smile is approaching psychotic. "Whatever brings you here must be pressing."

                "It is." He gestures to Kinston, who steps up to hand him the scroll. "You never attended the capital. My father ordered this brought to you." He steps up to the high table, hands over the scroll.   
  
It's a fake, but it looks real enough to fool Snow - or so he hopes.

                "My wife deeply regrets the situation regarding your father, of course," Jaime carries on. "The poisoning business - it was all most unfortunate. We hope, of course, that this may bring peace between our families." Snow's eyes have widened, and Jaime recognises the gleam of greed there. "I'm here to act on behalf of the Regent and legitimise you. As a peace offering, the lands your father claimed before his death will pass to you."

                "I see," Snow finally says.

                "If we may, could we prevail on your hospitality for a night?" Jaime asks smoothly. "The road was long, and I am not yet accustomed to Northern temperatures. We could conclude our formalities on the morrow."

                "Of course, my Lord." Snow raises a hand. When a man steps up, he turns slightly. "Make ready rooms for our guests. See they have everything they need."

  
They're finally offered the bread and salt, but Jaime still sleeps with his sword - sleep being a strong word for his uneasy dozing. He could swear he can hear screaming whenever he wakes.

  
Breakfast is a fairly dismal affair. The Dreadfort feels cold even with the fires lit and Jaime finds himself thinking wistfully of Winterfell, with the spring-warmed walls and roaring fires. Snow is obviously excited, his pale eyes gleaming with a frantic light that Jaime doesn't trust or like.

  
They go through with some sham of a ceremony, Jaime leading it. Ramsey Snow rises as Lord Bolton, or so he thinks, and it looks like they've managed to get away with it. All Jaime has to do now is get the man to accompany him back to Winterfell and face Sansa.

  
But it seems fate can be kind even to Kingslayers.

                "I have a gift for your wife," Snow says, icy smile firmly in place. "A wedding gift if you will. Perhaps you could deliver it." He raises a hand, clicks his fingers. "Reek!" Naively, stupidly, Jaime thinks he's calling a dog. But it's not a dog.

  
Theon Greyjoy shuffles forward out of a shadow behind the High Table. To go unnoticed, he must have been squatting like some animal. This is not the arrogantly confident Theon Jaime remembers from Whispering Wood. This Theon's hair is thin and white where he still has it, his scraggled beard is white too. He is thin and dirty, his clothes ragged. He is twitching and trembling. He looks at nothing but the floor. His hands are horribly mutilated and the limping shuffle tells Jaime his feet are most likely hurt too. Horror and pity roll in his guts.

                "What is this?" he asks, his voice flat.

                "This is Reek!" Snow states proudly, like he's presenting Jaime with a full-trained horse and not a man. "Lady Sansa isn't the only Northener who believes treasonous turn-coats should pay for their sins. I have taken the liberty of breaking him in for her to punish as she sees fit. A wedding gift for a wronged sister." Jaime has to swallow hard before he can speak again. This is obscene, this is twisted, this is wrong. And he thinks hard and he thinks _what would Sansa do_ and comes up with possibly the maddest plan he's ever had.

                "A fine gift, Lord Bolton, and I thank you for it. I'm sure my wife will be grateful. But would you not prefer to give her this gift yourself? I'm certain she would like to thank you in person and see for herself that there is no ill will between us. You could accompany us to Winterfell." Ramsey Snow smiles a horrible, ecstatic smile.

                "What an excellent idea, my Lord. I would be all too pleased to do so."

  
They can arrest him on the road, Jaime decides, after they build up his trust enough to perhaps get his guard down a little. They can wait until they're within sight of Winterfell and arrest him, even wait until they're inside the walls and surrounded by their own men. Sansa just wants the man alive, she didn't specify that she wanted him bound and gagged.

  
Theon - or what was Theon, at least - will horrify her, Jaime is absolutely certain of that. He would spare her it if he could, he would shift the heavens to find some way to soften this blow, but he cannot find an opening to do so. The broken shadow Snow calls Reek never strays far from his - captor's? Master's? Jaime isn't sure - side and he can't get the man alone long enough to speak to him. Sansa has never talked of Theon and what he did to Jaime, but he knows it hurts her. Nobody mentions her poor little brothers to his wife, the boy Jaime crippled and the chubby baby orphaned so young then killed so brutally. They said Greyjoy had burnt them alive.

  
He doesn't look capable of it.

  
He wakes on the morning of the fifth day feeling relieved. He'll be home by nightfall, he can start trying to fix the cracks his marriage is showing. He can tell Sansa he loves her, as he should have told her before he left. He can sweep her into his arms and kiss her warmly, as he should have done in the courtyard, propriety be damned.

  
He comes out of his tent.

  
Ramsey Snow brings a dagger to level at the throat of a bloodied and beaten Kinston.

                "Be a good man," Snow says in an icy voice. "Drop your sword or I'll slit his throat."

                "My Lord, don't -" Kinston starts, but Jaime's already got his hands on his belt.

                "There's no need to do anything rash," he says, keeping his voice as level as he can. "Kinston is under the direct protection of the Lannister family. Make no mistakes, I will comply." He gets the sword off, throws it over the Snow. "What do you want?" he asks.

                "What every man in the Seven Kingdoms wants, Lannister." The smile is gone but the blue eyes burn like an ice storm. "I want your wife."

  
He slits Kinston's throat there in the mud and someone smashes the hilt of a sword into the back of Jaime's skull.

  
_I should have turned back when she called my name. I should have never left her side._


	7. Sansa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that this chapter contains some distressing content at the very end involving Sansa's pregnancy.

Thirteen days, and no word.

  
It should have taken eleven, perhaps twelve if he stayed overnight somewhere to avoid bad weather or if there were troubles on the road. And if he had done so, surely he would have sent a raven or even a messenger.

  
She's had nothing, and the fear is creeping in to mingle with the worry to make her stomach roll. She lays a careful hand on her still-small bump, and she stares out over the road he should be coming down.

                "My Lady? You shouldn't be up here in this wind, with no cloak or even a hood." Maester Castlan's voice is gentle, but she can hear the reprimand. "It may snow any time -"

                "It will not snow before nightfall," she answers, not taking her eyes off the road. "But when it comes, the storm will be terrible. My husband did not take enough warm things, he is not used to our weather. I told him what he had would suffice, I thought he would be home before the weather broke." She grips a protrusion in the stones. "Send a raven to Lord Glover, and one to Lord Manderly. Use my seal. Ask them if they have seen anything of my husband on the road. Ask them to send me word if he is taking shelter with them."

                "Yes, my Lady."

  
A few minutes after he leaves, Caliene appears with her cloak and hood. She insists Sansa put them on, even as Edric appears with mugs of hot milk.

                "I charmed the cook into it for me," he says, his light Southron accent so much more obvious up here. "He said it was always your favourite, my Lady."

                "Thank you, Edric," she murmurs. She'd been so surprised and so pleased to get here and find many of the servants at least unharmed. So many of them had watched her grow up, it had made some of the differences in her seem slightly less drastic. She sips her milk. Honey, she realises. Just as she always liked it. "Send Ser Marbrand to my solar," she says suddenly. "Immediately."

  
He comes at once, in full armour.

                "You knew Jaime long before I ever met him," she says without either preamble or formality. "You knew him from a boy. Tell me, should I be worried?" He looks her dead in the eye.

                "Yes, my Lady."

                "I was afraid you would say that. Tell me what to do," she continues. "I am young, Ser, and I am afraid. Tell me what to do."

                "My Lady, you are doing the right thing. The ravens to the Houses along the road, they're the right thing."

                "Should I send out a search party, Ser? Because you know, I think, as well as I do, that he hasn't taken shelter from a storm still hours away. Something has happened and I do not like what I have heard of Snow."

                "I think, my Lady, that at this time that would be a mistake."

                "I was afraid you might say that too."

                "My Lady, if I may?" She nods. "If you were kidnapping the heir to Tywin Lannister's name, lands and fortunes, what is the first thing you would do?"

                "Send a ransom demand, or a letter detailing my intentions."

                "Precisely. And forgive me, My Lady - but when your brother captured my Lord at the battle of Whispering Wood, he notified Lord Tywin immediately. He didn't arse about - pardon, My Lady, I mean he didn't keep the news secret." Despite the situation, her lips twitch at his slip in formality. "I think at this time we should hope that all it is, is a minor accident, an incident with a horse mayhaps. But we should hope for that whilst planning for the worst."

                "The worst being that Snow has taken him as hostage?" He just nods. "Very well. Then we start planning for the worst."

  
Deep down, she knows already.

  
She knows, because when the ravens from Glover and Manderly are answered by representatives instead of birds, she knows it's the worst case scenario.

  
The Lords demand to know who rules the North if the Warden is missing.

                "You may tell your Lords, sers, that in the absence of my husband, I rule the North. I am a daughter of Eddard Stark, I rule the North until my husband is returned to me, whereupon we will rule together. And you may remind them from me that any man who would bring harm upon the Warden of the North, or who would shelter any man guilty of such an act, would be committing treason."

  
When the letter comes from Snow, she's already known for days.

  
_I have your husband, Lady Sansa, in exchange for the betrayal your House showed mine._

_  
I demand you return what you stole from my father when you executed him for crimes he was not guilty of. I demand you surrender the lands and titles you unlawfully claim. I demand you pardon Lord Roose Bolton for the crimes you claimed he was guilty of. I demand you do this publically._

_  
Do this, Lady Sansa and I will return your husband to you alive. I regret that I cannot say unharmed. I trust the gift I enclose will advise you that it would be best to follow my demands._

_  
Ramsey Bolton, Lord Bolton._

  
She summons Marbrand to her, still staring at the contents of the box. She lets him read the letter.

                "What did he send you?" She turns the box and Marbrand blanches.

                "Jaime's right hand," she says. Marbrand looks from the box to her and she hopes to the Gods he can see her rage. "I want him dead," she says icily. "I want Ramsey Snow's head mounted on my walls. Bring the Maester to me. I will notify Lord Tywin and then we ride out, Ser. I will meet Bolton in the field myself." She meets Marbrand's eyes. "Call the banners," she orders. "If Ramsey Snow wants war, then I will bring the fury of the North down upon his miserable head."

  
The Maester advises against her riding out, Marbrand urges her to reconsider when the Karstarks refuse to send their men and Glover, Manderly and Umber send only a deputation. She refuses.

  
She waits only for the last of the men to arrive, gives them less than a moon's turn to do it in. She ravens Ramsey in her own hand, and she rides out to meet him. In her mind, she knows this is not the end. She will unite the North if it takes every last ounce of her strength to do it. She will be a Queen of War if she must. And she knows that this is her test, that if this fails she and Jaime will lose every vestige of power they've been able to scrape up so far. But there is fury in her heart and a storm gathering in her fingertips and she's never felt so much like the direwolf she's fought to be since she learnt about cruelty.

  
They meet Bolton in the field - his thousand men against her two thousand, and she meets him herself, with a carefully chosen band - the most senior men sent by Glover, Manderly and Umber; Lord Hornwood, Lord Reed and Lord Cerwyn and Marbrand by her direct side.

  
For a long time, she stands there, facing Ramsey Snow for the first time. His icy blue eyes are terrifyingly fiery and his smile as he obviously and extendedly looks her over - from the now clear evidence of her pregnancy to her own eyes that despite her skin crawling, hold his own.

                "Lady Sansa," Snow says, his smile positively gleeful. "How very nice to see you."

                "Where is my husband?" she demands flatly. "I want to see him before this continues."

                "You do not trust me? I am hurt, Lady Sansa."

                "If he is alive, you have something to bargain with," she says dispassionately. "If you've already killed him, then there's nothing left for us to discuss." Snow's eyes flicker, just once. He raises his hand and someone starts walking forward with another man behind him - in chains or rope. Jaime. Her heart is lurching wildly in her chest, but she cannot lose control now.

                "You really are an exceptional beauty, Lady Sansa," he says smoothly. "I had hopes of marrying you myself once."

                "Then I'm sorry more powerful men than you had other plans." His face darkens a moment before the smile returns, colder than ever.

                "Your husband, Lady Lannister," he says as the men reach them.

  
She takes in the situation as quickly as she can. Jaime is death-white, a blueness around his lips she does not like, his eyes purple with shadows. And the stump where his right hand should be in wrapped in a filthy, blood-soaked rag. Ice fires in her veins, rage ignites hot in her belly and she takes one very measured step forward.

                "You should die for this," she hisses. "Unchain him now, give him to me and I might let you take the Black instead. Refuse me, or harm one more hair on him and I will have you cut down in front of me."

                "I think you might change your mind, Lady Lannister," Ramsey says, his face ugly in triumph. "Your precious husband comes with a gift." He turns his head. "Bring Reek here."

                "I don't want anything from you," she tells Ramsey. Every fibre of her being feels like it's about to tear apart. Jaime is fixing his eyes on her, she feels the wind pick up around her and catch at her dress and her hair, feels the cold of it cut through cloak and dress.

  
It doesn't make her shiver.

  
Instead, she remembers something. _The Ice Queen is kissed by fire._

"Marbrand," she orders. He steps forward at once. "Give me your sword." He doesn't question her, just draws it and hands it over. She saw her father do this once. She puts it - and Gods, but the thing is heavy - point down and folds her hands over the helm. She thinks it's called a helm, anyway. "I am Sansa Lannister, the Lady of Winterfell," she says, her voice carrying clearly now, spread by the winter wind. "I am Eddard Stark's trueborn heir and the heir to the Crown of the North once put upon my brother's head. I have called my banners and have had them come on my order. I have two thousand men loyal to my name, my house, and to the North I am the blood of upon this field. You are Ramsey Snow, a bastard and a traitor. You are guilty of treason against the Warden of the North and the King in the North. With the power of the Crown and Winterfell, I sentence you to die, Ramsey Snow." She smiles at him herself then, even as she hears six hisses as six separate swords are drawn behind her. "How fast can you run, traitor?"

                "I -"

                "Run," she orders. "Your Queen commands it."

  
She lets him turn his back on her, start frantically signalling, turns her head only an inch to the left, never takes her eyes off Ramsey. She holds out Marbrand's sword.

                "Kill him."

  
His arrogance in believing he could intimidate her enough to meet her on an open field without more than a single man to back him up is what kills him in the end. She unties Jaime herself, fingers shaking on the ropes as she unravels them. Marbrand is at her side, picking Jaime up even as he keeps staring at her. She presses a kiss to his filthy hair, closes her eyes on the fierce surging of relief.

  
_They say the Ice Queen is kissed by fire. That her hair is like flames and she has a warm smile. But her eyes count a different story. Her eye is like ice, like wildness in her veins..._  
  
When she walks back to her horse, she walks through kneeling men to get there. Her resolution settles firm in her heart. She will rule as a Stark in spirit if not in name and the direwolf will sit in Winterfell, her blood - and the blood of her children - forever carrying that wildness. A man holds her horse and she meets the eyes of Lord Hornwood as he stands stoic.

                "Send a man ahead to ready the Maester," she says. "Send another to find out about the Reek the traitor mentioned, and a third to remind every man who chose to side with him that if he does not now chose to swear fealty to Winterfell, to my husband and directly to me, they can share his fate. Then ride with me, Lord Hornwood. You have proven yourself loyal beyond measure today." He bows.

                "Yes, your Grace. I would be more than honoured to accompany the Queen."

  
Your Grace. _Queen_.

  
She leaves Snow's body where he fell. The wolves of the North can devour him as carrion, and Queens care not for carrion. Queens care about their subjects, and those they love.

  
Her being is consumed now by one thought - _Dear Gods, let Jaime live. I cannot lose him now. Let him live so he may hear me say I love him, that I cannot be so strong without him, that to lose him now would be to lose myself. Let him live so that we may grow strong together once more. Save him if you can, Mother, and wrap him in my love to keep him warm until I may wrap him in my arms._

  
There is a dampness between her legs when they return to Winterfell, and when Lord Hornwood helps her from her horse, she drags her hand over a wet opatch glistening onher saddle. Her palm comes away red as her vision goes white. And all she can do is get Lord Hornwood by the neck of his breastplate as her legs go out and he catches at her with a shout.

                "The Queen!"

                "Jaime - first," she gasps; and the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very late, and very sorry!
> 
> Work, child, laptop issues have all kept me from posting until today - but I hope it proves worth the wait!


	8. Arya II

It's been a week on the road before she stops looking back over her shoulder and worrying that any minute now, she'll see Gendry, hurt and confused, and the Hound in his anger. She tells herself it's good she doesn't see them.

  
She left them with the money, taking only enough for a little food. What's left will get the pair of them out of the country and safely set up somewhere far away. Gendry can open his own smith, the Hound can drink himself to death or live as a sell-sword. Whatever makes them both happy.

  
Nymeria ranges beside her - never too close, but always within distance. The wolf hunts indiscriminately, bringing Arya fresh rabbits and taking down bigger animals like young deer or even wild boars occasionally. Arya butchers those as best as she can, hacking out lumps of meat and leaving the rest for Nymeria to devour as she will.

  
It's around a week and a half in when she starts seeing the people. Little groups, all carrying bundles or with carts in some cases, with children with them and older people. It's not until the night Nymeria brings a stag down that Arya does anything about it. She butchers the carcass, goes to the nearest camp, comprised of at least twelve people. She's challenged as soon as she approaches, a boy of about thirteen holding a dagger aloft - in such a way that it would be fundamentally useless if she was actually here to rob or hurt them.

                "Who are you?"

                "I have meat," she says. "Fresh, killed today. I offer to share it."

                "Let her come," a woman's voice orders from beside the fire. Arya counts five children with weary, dirty faces peeking out at her, three old men with white beards and two old ladies with wizened faces and bright eyes peering at her. Then there are two women, around her mother's age perhaps. No men.

  
Arya gives them the meat and the women cook it up. The children fall on it like wolves, the elders seem to savour it more. Arya holds her questions until the children have been tucked up and seem to be asleep.

                "Are you war refugees?" she asks quietly. The younger of the two women nods.   
                "We are. The wars in the Riverlands - our husbands never came home. There's no work, and soldiers destroyed our village. We're heading for the capital but the children cannot walk so long and the old ones cannot go very fast. We could not afford a horse and cart. All we have, we carry." It's then that Arya notices the older woman is showing signs of pregnancy. She doesn't ask questions.

                "It's our hope we might get some work in the city," the younger woman finishes quietly.

                "There's no work in King's Landing," Arya says bluntly. "And the Lord's won't care for you. You'll end up on the streets or worse."

                "Where else can we go?"

                "If you lived in the Riverlands, then your Lord must have been House Tully."

                "That's right."

                "Go North," Arya suggests quietly. "Lady Lannister - Sansa Lannister - was a Stark before she married, and her mother was a Tully. She'll help you. They helped the war widows at Casterly Rock - paid the wages the men should have had, helped the women get work, took care of their people. Why not go North?"

                "We - never thought. And they say winter will be here soon -"

                "The North knows winter," Arya points out. "Go North. The capital won't help anyone but themselves. Go North and tell Lady Lannister that Arry sent you." She looks at the children. "The city is under curfew, there's no food. Please. Your children have suffered enough. There's nothing for them in the city but begging on the streets."

                "We're a long way off."

                "But there's safety at the other end. Tell anyone else you meet to do the same."

                "What's it to you, girl?" one of the old men pipes up. "And what's a girl doing on the roads alone?"

                "It's better you don't know too much about me," she answers. "Like I say, tell Lady Sansa Arry sent you, she'll understand. And I'm trained with this," she says, tapping the hilt of her sword. "I can defend myself. Speaking of training - if you plan to actually defend yourselves, someone needs to teach the boy how to hold that dagger."

  
She stays with them until morning, Nymeria obediently staying out of sight. But Arya knows she's there, ranging the edges of the camp, just out of the circle of firelight, flashes of pale grey fur occasionally flashing in the light if she comes closer. At first light, she gives the boy some rudimentary lessons with the dagger. She knows that he would be overpowered immediately if someone actually wanted to rob them, but there's no point to telling him that. She gives them what money she has too. She can hunt and Yoren had taught her a few things about living off the land, plants that would make her sick and plants that would be edible if she stewed them first. She already has her horse. What she has might get them a cart and horse, if they find the right seller. Even if it doesn't buy them that, it'll buy them food, warmer clothing. It might get them North.

  
She leaves them still undecided, and keeps going, Nymeria slinking out of the trees to join her again. There's blood on her muzzle.

  
She sees more groups on her way. If they hail her, she tells them what she told the first group - go North, and tell Lady Lannister of Winterfell Arry sent you. It's subtle undermining, but it's something. There's nothing in the capital for these people but restrictions and starvation. Sansa though, Sansa can help them. Arya believes that with her entire heart.

  
Halfway there, she starts hearing the rumours.

  
People are murmuring in the inns and around the campfires that the Lannisters of Winterfell have executed Roose Bolton, that the Warden of the North has been taken hostage by Bolton's bastard, that the Lady of Winterfell is calling in her banners. The closer she gets, the wilder the rumours become. The closer she gets, the more worried she gets. People say that Lady Lannister is riding to war with Bolton's bastard. She pushes the horse as much as she dares, riding long into each night, sleeping as little as she can get away with. It's getting colder too, much colder.

  
And she is being followed.

  
She's suspected so since around Harrenhal, but now, up near the Neck and three days since she saw another person, she knows it. She'd suspect the Hound and Gendry, but neither of them could be - or would be - this subtle. Whoever is following her is subtle in the extreme. All she has is the feeling, the prickle on the back of her neck. Someone is stalking her trail. She doesn't think it's a raper or a robber. They wouldn't be this patient. And Nymeria is wary, trailing back often but not growling or raising her hackles, or giving any sign that there's a threat. She doesn't know what to make of it, or what to do about it. Whoever it is, they don't seem to be a threat or out to harm her.

  
Even so, she wants to identify them. She wants to know what they want.

  
She baits the trap perfectly. She lights a fire and cooks a meal, calls Nymeria from her ranging to sit beside her. If she's going to be targeted, she's going out fighting.

  
The moon is high when there's finally a sign. A snapping twig, a rustle in a bush without a breeze to account for it. Something in her guts tells her she knows who this is.

                "You can come out," she orders levelly. "I know you're there." The silence descends again but she's not waiting long. Nymeria growls for the first time, her hackles rising. Arya makes no attempt to call her off. Whoever this is, she wants them as uncomfortable as she has been.

  
The silence drags on, but she knows. She knows he won't wait long and when he does finally emerge into the circle of light her fire casts, she realises that somewhere deep down, she knew it would be him.

                "Jaqen H'ghar," she says levelly. He inclines his head. "So much for Jaqen is dead."

                "Arya Stark. A girl should not be alone on the road in these times."

                "I can take care of myself," she says shortly. "I've done a few things since we last saw each other."

                "A man is aware."

                "So, any particular reason you've been following me?" she queries, gesturing at the other side of the fire for him to sit down. "And no riddles, Jaqen. I'm too busy for it."

                "A man still owes a girl a name." She squints at him through the fire, but his face remains impassive.

                "Your memory must be wrong," she remarks. "That fucked-up face thing must have damaged it. You filled my third name when you got me and my friend out of Harrenhal."

                "A man has his reasons," Jaqen answers. "The Many-Faced God deems the debt still owing."

                "Did I not just say no riddles?" she demands, but doesn't wait for an answer. She knows she won't get one. "I don't have a third name."

                "And if a man reminded you of someone you wish to save?"

                "What?"

                "Someone wishes harm upon your family." She doesn't bother asking how he knows that.

                "There's no point giving you Cersei's name. She's already sent the assassin." Jaqen merely sits impassive. "I don't know the assassin's name," she points out snappily. "If I knew his name, I'd have something of actual use to tell Sansa."

                "Do you want him as your third name?" Jaqen asks.

                "Don't I need to know it, for it to work?"

                "The Many-Faced God can see all things, Arya Stark. The Many-Faced God can see you."

                "I don't believe in your Many-Faced God. There's only one God, Jaqen, and his name is Death. So if Death wants one more thing from me, then fine - find that assassin and kill him before harm comes to my sister. That's my third name. Can you do that?" Jaqen nods slowly.

                "A man can do it, lovely girl."

                "Good."

                "Does a lovely girl still have the coin a man gave her?" She starts a little. She'd all but forgotten the coin. She puts a hand to the pocket of her jerkin, feels for it.

                "I still have it."

                "Do not forget it," he warns. "Do you remember how to use it?"

                "Valar Morghulis."

                "Very good, Arya Stark. Do not forget it. Remember those words."

                "What do they mean?" she asks.

                "All men must die." She blinks at him.

                "All men must die?"

                "Yes, Arya Stark. Remember that, wherever you go. All men must die, and the Many-Faced God knows it." He stands up then, turns from the fire to walk away.

                "Jaqen," she says, calling him back only to hesitate. He waits, doesn't prompt or interrupt her. "Jaqen, what if - what if I don't want it? What if there's more than - than revenge?" He inclines his head.

                "Nobody but you can make that decision, Arya Stark. Keep the coin, lovely girl. Whether you use it or not, know that a man will help a girl if she needs it."

  
He leaves her then, without waiting for an answer. She stays long enough to eat, then puts out her fire and keeps riding. There's still a long road to ride, and no way of knowing if the assassin is ahead or behind - and no way to be sure if Jaqen will be successful. She has to get home.

  
She has to get to Sansa. Family comes first, and the pack survives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks! 
> 
> I've had the flu, I've had issues with my phone - which is a problem because I write on my phone - and I've been working on top of that! 
> 
> This week can go die in a fire, frankly! 
> 
> Anyway, I bring you this update on the eve of the finale of Game of Thrones! I hope you like it. If you dislike the ending, whatever it is tonight, then maybe this AU might help. 
> 
> AS always I give thanks for the unending love and support - to everyone except the prick in the comments section who said I should never write anything again because I gave Winterfell to the Lannisters. They can bite me.


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